


Naming a King, Defenders of Men

by InsectKin



Category: The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Backstory, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-20 22:34:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12443214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsectKin/pseuds/InsectKin
Summary: Aleksander meets Alexander.Half a century-ish before Shadow & Bone.





	Naming a King, Defenders of Men

The Darkling walked without attending to the path, the trek between the Grand and Little Palaces achingly familiar after centuries. Snow crunched beneath his boots and he bent his head against the wind, his oprichniki silent beside him.

_If the matter is reversed, what is the reverse of the matter?_ It had been scrawled in the margin of one of Morozova’s journals, written backwards in what was undoubtedly his grandfather’s attempt at cleverness. The sentence might be the key that would unlock the secrets of merzost that had eluded him for so long – or it might be gibberish, the ramblings of a man too powerful and lonely for his own good.

That, at least, was something the Darkling understood.

The doors to the Grand Palace opened and the warm light that spilled from the entry hall transformed the snow into a scattering of diamonds. His boots crunched over that, too.

A servant of the Grand Palace met them inside, took one look at the Darkling and froze, whites visible around the full circumference of her eyes. There had been a time when he’d found the facial expressions that the twin reactions of enchantment and terror caused amusing.

That had been a very long time ago.

_The reverse of the matter._

The oprichnik to his left cleared his throat and announced, “The Tsar requested the Darkling’s presence.”

The servant blinked, startling herself back into her senses, and turned towards the oprichnik. “Yes, of course. The Tsar is with the other guests in the ballroom.” She chanced a glance back at the Darkling, only briefly, then diverted her gaze to a spot above his head, pressing her lips together in a futile attempt to stop the quiver. “I can lead the way if you need, moi – moi –”

“Soverenyi,” hissed the oprichnik.

“Soverenyi,” she recovered. He should require additional training for servants in the Grand Palace; he’d have one of his oprichniki look into it later.

But this exchange had taken enough of his attention for the moment. “No need,” he replied and continued past the woman towards the double doors at the end of the hall.

The servant began a curtsy as he passed, but halted midway – uncertain, apparently, if one curtsied in the presence of the commander of the Second Army or if one simply fled. He didn’t look back to see what she’d decided.

The hall was warmly lit for the winter evening, flames dancing on their wicks and heedless of the wax they dripped onto the polished marble floors. The Darkling’s black kefta stood out starkly against the nobles’ attire as he made his way towards the front of the room. Guests stepped aside to keep their distance as he passed; their conversation stopped in his wake. 

_If the matter is reversed_. The Tsar looked up from a group of nobles, the round sides of his face lifting. “Ah, Darkling, welcome. I was hoping you’d make an appearance.” 

There was nothing that moved as slowly as a country, the Darkling had observed, excluding perhaps himself. When countries could be bothered to change, they did so predictably, following a script that he had long since learned by heart. Moving the seat of power, shifting attitudes – those were things that had to be done while declaring your intent to protect the status quo loudly enough that no one heard you sneaking up behind them until the knife was at their throat. He was cautious, methodical, deliberate, with a plan for every contingency: at this point, there were only two variables he wasn’t confident in his ability to control. The man in front of him was one of them. And the other –

The Darkling tipped his head in acknowledgement, bringing his full attention from Morozova’s journals to the tsar. “I wouldn’t miss the chance to meet Ravka’s next king.”

The tsar beamed – a father only barely, in so many ways still a boy – as he gestured  towards a golden cradle and the few pounds of flesh within. 

The tsar’s own guards stepped closer to the infant as the Darkling approached; he would be allowed to see, but never to touch, the prince. Even this Tsar, though less fearful than some, didn't completely lack superstition. 

The Darkling had no interest in holding the child, anyway. He was here for the purpose of reconnaissance.

He bent to look into the cradle. The Darkling’s greatest threat lay swaddled in a white knit blanket shot through with gold thread, a tiny fist raised above his head in victory of having made it to this side of life. His face was mottled, his head misshapen, and the skin around his eyes was flaking. The Darkling had never been sure what people found endearing about infants. “He’s beautiful,” he told the tsar.

“Isn’t he?” the tsar whispered, and something in his voice prompted the Darkling to shift his focus to Ravka’s current ruler. The way he looked at his son was so human, so full of love. There was a time when Aleksander would have found a gaze like that painful. A time when he’d still held out hope of being looked at that way himself. 

The tsar straightened and cleared his throat, turning towards the Darkling. “His name is Alexander.” The Darkling’s jaw ticked. “The Third. I named him for my great grandfather –”

"I remember."

There was a brief pause as the tsar hid his surprise and redid his math. A tight smile. "Of course. You must have taken your position shortly after he … departed." He glanced towards his son, conscious of the Ravkan superstitions around mentioning death in the first thirteen days of an infant’s life.

"Just before,” the Darkling corrected. “He died less than a year after my arrival." The tsar and the crowd around him shifted uneasily. The Darkling was also aware of those superstitions – he just didn't much care for them. 

"Ah." There was a moment of recovery before the tsar tilted his head gamely, truly a politician. "Then it must make you feel young again. Having an Alexander around."

It was hardly the king's fault that he was a fool, and he was no more so than most. The Darkling moved his lips into what the monarch would choose to interpret as a smile. "I will always feel old."

The wind was colder on the walk back to the Little Palace, the night deep enough that even the stars were hiding. He let tendrils darkness seep from his gloved hands to cover the snow that carpeted the ground, a starless sky above and below.

_Alexander._

There were few things that had the capacity to pierce his boredom these days, even fewer for longer than it took him to extinguish a flare of anger. But that name caused something inside his chest to shift, like the memory of a feeling. 

He took the long way to the Little Palace, leading his oprichniki through the woods. They passed by Baghra’s hut and he considered visiting his mother, but decided against it. He’d had this conversation with her before, could have it in his head: "What's his name matter, boy? There will be millions of Alexanders and you'll outlive them all."

But this shift in his chest had reminded him that even a life has long as his had the potential for more than this, and he longed – suddenly, fiercely – for something else. Something that would make him feel alive again, something that would make him _feel_.

But the eternity of his existence had settled boredom deep within his bones. Sex had ceased to be interesting centuries ago and even killing people had gotten ... not boring, exactly, but unnoteworthy. If he hadn't had a Grisha metabolism there's no doubt that he would long ago have fallen prey to the drugs that the otkazat'sya were so fond of when their own lives didn't provide the stimulation and escape they needed. He inhaled deeply, letting the cold air pierce the hidden recesses of his lungs. 

Perhaps it was for the best.

He spent the evening in his study, Morozova’s journals open on his lap. The pages were worn, soft as fabric beneath his fingers as he flipped through one journal than another; he’d long since committed every line to memory. He’d once passed a year reading the journals backwards – he’d even analyzed the stray pen marks for meaning, a last ditch attempt that revealed nothing. Tonight he spent the evening as he always did, with journals as familiar to him as his own hollow chest.

There were times when the Darkling envied his grandfather’s ability to choose death.

_If the matter is reversed, what is the reverse of the matter?_ He’d seen new kings before; he would live to see more. They would be different, slightly, and he would modify his plans to accommodate them. Today, nothing had changed.

_If the matter is reversed_ – He knew the line were nonsense; his brain was grasping at anything that might keep him occupied, anything at all. But tonight the focus came harder than usual.

The candles burned low, then sputtered. Aleksander pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. 

 


End file.
